Unnatural Instinct: Blood Run

7.

'You're a mongrel,' you snap. 'You're all mongrels! The stories are right about you!'

Turning away from him, you stomp back to the shelter. You attempt to grab up a pelt to cover your nakedness, but he stops you with another 'No'.

You turn on him. 'I'm going to dry myself off.'

He doesn't argue as you do exactly that, turning around for the tiniest bit of dignity you can salvage. When you're done, you drape the pelt around your body and turn to your shoes—or what's left of them. They've not had a chance to dry and the shoelaces are impossible to untie. Sitting down, you wrench them off. The socks you peel off. You wriggle your wrinkled toes in relief. You hadn't realised how much your feet were aching. Making sure the pelt's safely in place, you stand and turn. You're about to sit down to eat—prepared to do what he says—when he stops you with another 'No'.

Your nostrils flare. 'You might be content to sit naked like an animal but I am not.'

'No.' He raises a broad, flat hand and shakes his head. 'Off.'

'No!'

'Off.'

'NO!'

With a cry, you try to twist away from him, but as usual your resistance is futile. The pelt is gone with one hard yank and you're naked and vulnerable again.

He points to the ground, his voice now deep and gravelly. He's getting inpatient. You feel a prick of pleasure (it's the only win you have) before tears of rage stream down your cheeks.

'Sit,' he says.

You obey with a grunt and he sits opposite you, looking calmer as he pushes the board of rabbit meat towards you. You drop your head into your hands, then drag them down your face. 'God!'

Giving up, you pick up a chunk and slap it into your mouth, unwilling to give him any indication that you might enjoy or appreciate it. It doesn't matter anyway. You don't taste a thing, only your rage and the salt of your tears.

His eyes rake over you, from your lips, to your shoulders then breasts, before they fall to your groin where they linger. All you can do is flick your tongue in disgust, unable to do anything about it. You've never felt so filthy before, especially as his erection slowly makes its appearance between his crossed legs, lifting bit by bit like the neck of an ugly reptile. It's like its own animal: appearing and disappearing, hard and soft, short and long. It stands up against his belly, flushed, the skin taut and shiny.

Completely unashamed, he pushes over another chunk of meat.

'I'm full,' you say.

He frowns. 'Eat.'

'I'm not hungry.'

'Cold.' He begins to rise to his feet.

'No!' you say suddenly. Not the stream! 'I'm eating, see?' And you press the next chunk into your mouth. Looking satisfied, he sits back down, dropping his chin into his hand as he watches you.

For a long time you're quiet. The sun drifts up the sky until it beats hotly against the little shelter. A brisk wind rustles through the leaves of the surrounding trees. Monkeys howl and hoot from all across the great forest. Something that might be a bear bellows from the distance. Birds sing in the branches above. Rodents chitter in a pile of rocks nearby. The forest is so alive, so different to the sounds of the village: the toll of the church bells; the hollering of the stall sellers in the market; the screaming and laughter of the children in your class.

At first it's different and stimulating as you try to match what animal makes what noise, but it doesn't take long before it gets tedious. You're hot and bothered. There's nothing to do. You clap your hands at a particularly fat and ugly fly as it buzzes around your head.

'So this is all we're going to do?' you say as you follow the fly with your eyes. 'Hang around here for the next three days until my period's over?'

He glances up at you, then back down again as he continues with his weaving. You clap your hands again without success. 'And what are you going to do then?' you continue. 'Force yourself on me? Because I'm never ever going to have sex with you willingly.'

He doesn't answer, hunched over his task. Curious, you take notice of what he's doing. He's been working on it all morning. It's some kind of netting or basket or fabric, made from a thick, long kind of grass, which he strips into slimmer pieces before plaiting together. His fingers are big and muscular and yet so dexterous for such a delicate task. It's strange to see the big muscles in his shoulders bulge around his neck and in his arms as he tries to be careful. It makes him look almost ... gentle.

'What are you making?'

He looks up at you, then away again.

You fold your arms across your breasts with a sniff.

From there, it gets tedious. Very tedious. You spend the entire morning together—apart: he sits on one side of the shelter and you sit on the other. You wait hopefully for an opening in his relentless watch—a chance for escape—but he refuses to leave your side. He doesn't even seek privacy to relieve himself. He urinates near you and shits near you—always you're in his sight. And you're expected to do the same.

He's shameless, unlike you. It takes until midday before you're forced to do the deed in front of him. Even in front of the likes of him, you're disgusted with the situation.

'I can't see why I can't do this privately,' you say in futility.

He just stares at you with his gleaming eyes and points.

It seems to take forever as you force yourself to relax into a squat. When you're done, you hurry to get away as fast as possible—the same can't be said for him.

'What are you doing?' you say as he stands over where you urinated.

Without answer, he grabs at his penis and urinates on top. But he doesn't stop there. All around the shelter he urinates. One time he even ejaculates, tugging furiously at his erection until he squirts white semen onto the base of a tree. You look away with a wince, then look back as he moves on. And that's when you realise what he's doing—marking his territory. Marking you.

When he's finally done, he approaches the shelter—and you. You scramble back into the corner as he raises his nose and sniffs. He's smelling you again, you know it. You know it because you can smell the blood yourself—and feel it sticking between your thighs.

You don't bother fighting, lying back and turning your face away as he opens your thighs and starts licking you again. You try your best to shut down that part of the brain that's enjoying it, but it's impossible. Closing your eyes, you groan. You're only an animal, after all is said and done. Like him. And you can't help but hope that he'll do the same thing tonight, tomorrow morning and midday again; day after day for the next three days yet to come.

And as you think and hope and anticipate, you hate yourself for it.